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Oh, God. His hand was warm, strong, calloused and scarred. Years ago, a Scot had severed one of his fingers in a brawl, the blade catching the flesh of his palm. But Amanda held on for her life—and his.
Because once she let go, she was never going to be able to take his hand again.
AT THE LAST POSSIBLE moment, he’d leaped onto his finest Thoroughbred and galloped every mile to Spanishtown. Now Cliff scanned the crowd that had gathered beneath the hot midday sun in the square between King’s House and the courthouse. Beautifully garbed ladies with white parasols and well-dressed gentlemen with walking sticks ambled about the hanging block beneath the shade of towering palm trees, chatting casually while they waited for the festivities to begin. Roughly dressed sailors sipped grog and pinched their whores; a few sailors were dancing with their trollops to the heady island tune a Negro fiddler was playing. A group of young boys were throwing stones at the scaffolding as if it were a bull’s eye target. They were laughing and becoming vicious. He turned away, scanning the other side of the square. A regiment of soldiers stood at attention outside of the courthouse, and more soldiers patrolled the perimeter of the park, in case the prisoner decided to escape. His heart beat hard, fueled by adrenaline. Where was she?
In a matter of minutes, Carre would be escorted from the prison to his fate. Cliff was certain La Sauvage was present.
He hadn’t slept a wink all night, obsessed by the fate of her father and her part in the terrible drama. He suspected she would not resign herself to being a spectator that day, but what could she possibly think to do? He knew one thing: he was not going to let her throw her own life away after her father’s. If she thought to attempt to save Carre’s life, he intended to stop her before the soldiers did.
Suddenly he felt eyes upon his back. He turned, glancing west at King’s House. On the upper floor, a huge window was open. Woods stood there, staring at the scene below.
Cliff turned away grimly. From the corner of his eye, he saw one of the boys slam a rock at the base of the hanging block, his laughter cruel. And he thought he heard a soft choked sound—a feminine sob.
His gaze slammed to the legs of the scaffolding. He saw a small, curled-up ball of rags and a mass of moon-colored hair. Furious, Cliff strode through the crowd, rudely pushing past several gentlemen. The crowd parted, the revelers realizing he was determined and enraged. The boys stopped throwing rocks at her as he approached, becoming silent, turning pale. He caught one of the ruffians by his shirt and flung him aside. “You will answer to me before this day is done,” he said.
The boy whispered, ashen, “She’s just the pirate’s daughter.”
Cliff whacked him on the shoulder, hard enough to send him flying. The other boys fled; this culprit crawled through the crowd, coward that he was, then found his land legs and ran away, as well.
He turned, kneeling. “Miss Carre?”
She was wedged beneath the deck where her father would stand in the noose, behind one of the deck’s thick wood legs, her knees to her chest, her eyes unnaturally bright and wide, as if with fever. She appeared very small and frightened, a tiny creature hiding from the dangerous world. His heart melted.
“Come out.” He spoke in a soft whisper, hoping to reassure her, and extended his hand.
She shook her head. A tear fell.
God, maybe it was better that she stay there, beneath the block, because if she did, she would not be able to see her father hang. But on the other hand, he wanted to get her far away from the square and the hanging, because he was afraid that if he did not, at the last moment she would come out of hiding and view a sight no woman should ever have to endure. “Please, come out. I will take you far away from this,” he tried, his tone now cajoling.
She stared, unblinking. Another tear fell.
His heart broke. “There is nothing to be gained by remaining here. Let me take you away.” An idea occurred to him. “I’ll take you to my ship. I have a cruise to make to St. Kitt, and the day is perfect for it.”
Her eyes flickered, brightening.
“A good, moderate breeze, the sea is so sweet,” he coaxed.
She wet her lips, hesitating.
“I’ll let you—” He stopped. His quarterdeck was sacred. “I’ll let you come onto my deck. Come, sweetheart.”
More tears fell. She suddenly nodded, extending her hand, and he reached for her. Just as their fingertips touched, the crowd roared, an explosion of sound, and then the jeers began. She cried out, jerking backward, away from his grasp. He glanced up and saw the soldiers bringing Carre out of the courthouse.
The jeers grew, accompanied by cruel and vicious taunts.
“The pirate’s had his fun—now we can have ours!”
“Let’s bleed him when he’s dead and paint our decks with his blood!”
“Think he’ll beg for mercy? Like the coward he’s got to be?”
“Let’s make him beg—let’s use the cat before he hangs!”
Cliff was ill, a rare feeling. He turned his gaze on Carre’s daughter. Urgently, he said, “We need to go now.”
As if she had heard him, she scrambled on all fours toward him. Cliff reached for her, but she was so goddamned agile she dropped down and rolled under his arm. He whirled to seize her again but she had shot to her feet and was running towards Carre, fighting the crowd to do so. “Papa!”
Carre had entered the square with his escort and he stiffened. “Get out of here, Amanda!” he roared.
Cliff seized her from behind, wrapping both of his arms around her. She didn’t even seem to notice. “Papa!” she screamed again.
Carre met his gaze and a silent agreement was reached. “Get her out of here, de Warenne.”
Cliff nodded, still holding her from behind as she struggled frantically to get to her father. “Don’t make me throw you over my shoulder,” he said tersely.
She didn’t seem to hear. “Papa, I love you!”
Carre paused, about to step up to the deck. “I love you, too, girl.”
Amanda went limp in Cliff’s arms. The soldiers prodded Carre with their carbines, forcing him to go up the five steps to the deck. Looking down at her face, he saw Amanda following his every movement, sobbing soundlessly now. Cliff was about to throw her over his shoulder when Carre said, “Girl! Promise me you go to England to your mother.”
Amanda nodded. “I promise,” she cried. “I promise,” she whispered again, choking.
Carre was thrust before the noose and abruptly blindfolded.
Amanda whimpered.
Cliff didn’t think; he reacted. He turned her to face him, holding her tightly against his big body, pressing her cheek to his chest. “Don’t move,” he warned, trying to envelop her small body with his while cradling the back of her head. He felt her tears soaking his shirt and chest.
He looked up. The noose was around Carre’s neck. The crowd cheered and roared and the stones began to fly, raining down on the condemned man.
Cliff looked away, sickened. He buried his own cheek against her curly hair, unthinkingly moving his mouth there. She began to shake like a leaf. He started to back away, taking her with him, and the crowd roared.
Amanda shoved at him, trying to twist around to see.
He held her hard, not letting her turn, not even an inch, determined to prevent her from watching her father gasping for his last breaths. Some hangings were swift and merciful; others were not, the victim dangling for endless minutes until the neck broke. He heard the loud snap, and he thanked the Lord that Carre’s death had been almost instantaneous.
In his arms, Amanda Carre fainted.
CHAPTER THREE
“SHE’S DEAD.”
The speaker seemed to be a man. What was he talking about? Amanda struggled to make sense of his words. A tall, golden-haired man appeared, his expression strained, his blue eyes frightening in their intensity. She knew him but could not place him. Shocked, she realized he was talking about her.
“She’s dead.”
“She’s not dead—she’s sleeping.”
“She’s not moving. She’s dead.”
Amanda began to panic. Was she dead? And who were these people arguing about her? She began to awaken, realizing that she was in the throes of a strange dream. She wasn’t dead, she was sleeping. She stretched but her body was weak and it felt battered, yet the pallet she was lying on gave deliciously and then sprang back, like the most heavenly cocoon. No pallet was so soft and firm, at once.
Where was she?
“No one sleeps for a whole day. She’s dead, Ariella, dead. See?”
Amanda jerked as someone roughly seized her foot through a soft, fluffy cover. Bewildered, she opened her eyes, blinking against the brightness of the room. Then she met a pair of blazing blue eyes and a wicked grin. She cried out.
“I told you she’s alive,” another child said.
Amanda sat up, her sore body protesting, staring at a small boy with dark hair and familiar blue eyes. He looked past the bed. “Of course she’s not dead. She’s been sleeping ever since Papa brought her home. I knew that! But I had you, didn’t I?”
“You did not!”
Amanda took in her surroundings. She was in a huge canopied bed, the ebony wood intricately carved, the bed hangings a misty blue. Terribly confused, she saw a fireplace with a white mantel carved with vines and leaves. She glanced down. The cover was a pale blue silk, the finest kind that came from plunder. Dazed, she took in a huge room with white-and-blue fabric covered walls. Dear God, all the furniture was matching, upholstered in ivory, blue or white, tufted with gold. And the ceilings were gilded. Then her gaze slammed to the wide-eyed little girl standing by her side.
The child smiled. “My name is Ariella. Papa says your name is Miss Carre. Are you his mistress?”
The boy reached over and jerked hard on her hair. Ariella punched him just as hard in the jaw.
Papa. And in that stunning moment, Amanda lost everything for the second time in her life. Grief crashed over and she was drowning in it—she could not breathe. The tears began, but she didn’t care. Gasping, she doubled over in pain.
Papa had been hanged. Papa was gone. Murdered by Woods and the British.
“She is ill. I’m getting Papa!” the boy said sharply, racing out.
Amanda vaguely heard. Cliff de Warenne had been there at the hanging, preventing her from watching him die. She must be at Windsong. Oh, God, how was she going to survive the loss, the pain?
A small hand stroked over her arm. “Miss Carre? Don’t cry. Whatever is making you so sad, my papa can fix it.” Pride filled her tone. “He can make you happy. He can do anything.”
Amanda blinked at the beautiful child through her streaming tears. She couldn’t recall much, just a terrible sound, the breaking of bones in her father’s neck. It was a sound she was never going to forget. “My papa’s dead,” she gasped to the child. And she hugged herself, doubling over again.
Rapid booted steps sounded. Amanda heard de Warenne. “Ariella!” He was stern.
“Papa, I didn’t make her cry!”
Slowly, Amanda somehow looked up, keeping her arms wrapped tightly around herself. And now she began to remember how Cliff de Warenne had kept his arms tightly around her at the hanging.
“I know you didn’t. Please join your brother in the nursery. Now.” De Warenne nodded at the door, his expression rigid.
Clearly knowing when to immediately obey, Ariella flung a worried look at Amanda and quickly left the room.
Amanda found herself staring into Cliff de Warenne’s searching blue eyes.
He had paused at the foot of the bed. “I will not be foolish enough to ask how you are feeling. I am sorry, Miss Carre, for your loss.”
Amanda broke into tears again. She turned onto her side and wept in grief. She was aware of him approaching, and felt him hovering over her, but the grief was just too much to bear. “Go away,” she wept, but she really didn’t want him to go. She wanted him to take her in his arms, the way he had a few hours ago, and to hold her until her wounds healed. Except she knew they never would.
His hand clasped her shoulder. Amanda suddenly realized her shoulders were bare. Her naked body was swimming in a very fine, lace-trimmed cotton nightgown. She couldn’t imagine what had happened to her clothes or whose garment she was wearing.
“You are in the throes of grief. It is understandable,” de Warenne said softly. “I have sent for my ship’s surgeon. He’ll give you laudanum. It will help.”
The terrible flood had ceased. Amanda turned onto her back and stared up at him. He quickly removed his hand from her shoulder. “Laudanum,” she said dully. She knew what laudanum did. When she had broken her wrist as a child, she’d been given it and it instantly erased the pain. Would it also erase her grief?
De Warenne’s face was strained. His blue eyes, however, were filled with sympathy and compassion. “If it is any consolation, your father died a swift death.”
She started to weep again.
“It will get easier. The anguish will ease. I promise you that, Miss Carre.”
She shook her head; she didn’t know how that could be possible. “Is your father…. dead?” she stuttered.
“No. But my mother died when I was a very small child.”
She started, her tears drying. “She did?”
He nodded gravely. “She died giving birth to my younger sister, Eleanor.”
Amanda struggled to sit up, and he slid his arm behind her to help her do so. Becoming dizzy, Amanda grasped his bulging forearms, but the wave intensified. She leaned toward him, her forehead finding his chest. The bed tilted wildly and she began to spin.
“You need to lie down with your legs elevated,” he said sharply.
Amanda couldn’t answer—she was trying to claw free of the spinning gray room. But suddenly she was on her back, all the pillows thrown to the floor, except for a large blue velvet neck roll, which was under her knees. The bed slowed, finally becoming level once again. Amanda opened her eyes, only to find de Warenne sitting by her hip, one arm under her knees along with the pillow, staring intently at her.
“You are exhausted,” he said flatly. “When was the last time you ate?”
She had no idea. “I’m fine. I never swoon. I don’t know why I got so dizzy.”
De Warenne jumped abruptly to his feet, tugging her nightgown down over her calves. He whirled. “Instead of hovering outside the door, Alexi, have a servant bring Miss Carre a bowl of soup and white bread.”
The boy nodded, wide-eyed, and raced off.
“I’m not hungry,” Amanda said, feeling very foolish now. She started to kick the pillow out from under her legs, unable to dismiss the fact that de Warenne had his hand under her nightgown.
He seized her knees, immobilizing her. “I suspect you haven’t eaten in days. Unless you wish to follow your father into his grave, you need to nourish your body, Miss Carre.”
His gaze was locked with hers. Amanda couldn’t look away—she was mesmerized. It was almost as if he had some genuine concern for her, but that was impossible. A flicker of interest began, piercing through the grief. “I don’t want to die,” she said slowly, and she realized that she meant it.
He smiled very slightly at her. “Good.”
WHEN AMANDA AWOKE the next time, bright sunlight was trying to filter through the closed blue-and-white draperies of the room. She blinked up at the ruched blue fabric of the canopy overhead, remembering everything. She was at Windsong; Papa was dead. She was unbearably saddened.
She wondered how long it had been since the hanging. She recalled having soup and bread, not once but several times, a pretty, plump maid with bright red hair hovering over her and helping her with her meal. She recalled the white-whiskered physician, probing her body and taking her pulse. She recalled drinking tea laced with laudanum, and she thought that perhaps she had done so several times.
Amanda glanced carefully around the room, now remembering two small children, a dark-haired boy and a golden-haired girl. But she was alone now. Had they been figments of her imagination or a part of a strange dream? Or had she really met de Warenne’s children? One of them was a prince or a princess, if the rumors were true.
De Warenne. He had been at the hanging, not allowing her to witness her father’s gruesome death. Had he really held her in his arms so protectively? Had that been a dream, too? Amanda was confused. Her memory was faded and torn and it was difficult to decide what was real and what was not.
